


Of Love and Other Demons

by elisabethdarling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU Voldemort was not conceived through a love potion, Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Love, Maid, Tragic Romance, Underage Character, WIP, alternate universe-no love potion, no one asked for this yet here it is, spoiled rich boy, this is an anti-Voldemort story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22015293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisabethdarling/pseuds/elisabethdarling
Summary: “My mother named me after the stars. Tom is a name someone might give to a stray cat, isn’t it?” As an irritated expression settled into his features, he saw a disappointed frown draw upon Merope’s. She looked at him as if he were an annoying child or a particularly uninteresting photograph. It infuriated him.
Relationships: Merope Gaunt/Tom Riddle Sr.
Comments: 46
Kudos: 71





	1. “Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”

**Author's Note:**

> I had a plot bunny that wouldn't go away

He should have known she was a witch. Looking back now it seems so obvious. The way she carried the wind in her stride; the way the ringing of bells followed her as she passed them on still days. How the croaking of toads and singing of crickets accompanied her timid steps. This nothing girl. This mouse. How could she enchant him so? 

It’s irritating to think of now as he sits in a train on his way home for the first time in over a year. Summer is steadily ending and the season’s changes are settling into the golden leaves and cold night air. Merope, that awful girl, will have a child by the new year. It makes him feel sick. Will it carry his family name? Will it have his father’s eyes?

Merope Gaunt came to his attention after her father and brother were sent to prison. It was the talk of their town. The Gaunt family was disliked generally and no one was shocked to hear they’d been escorted away by some strange looking authorities, but it was a sad thing in any case that a young girl was on her own. At least that’s what his mother went on and on about as they walked through their blooming garden the week after it happened.

“How old is the girl then?” His father, Thomas, asked as he examined a sprig of lavender pulled from the pathway. 

“Hardly fifteen.” His mother replied with a lamentable sigh. Her long blue skirt gently billowed in the breeze. Mary Riddle loved a tragic tale. It gave her something to pity and something to fix. 

“Unfortunate.” Thomas replied disinterestedly. Glancing up at his son he asked, “Didn’t you have a run in with Old Gaunt’s mad son?”

He had. Hadn’t he? Tom couldn’t really recall the incident. Only that it had something to do with Gaunt’s sister. 

“Yes.” Tom answered. “Cecilia and I were walking on the far side of the property in sight of their…shack. He had nailed a snake to the door. It was a rather dreadful sight.” 

Cecilia hated the Gaunt shack. Tom remembers the sneer on her perfect mouth and the way her lovely golden hair framed her rosy cheeks. He bought her a pearl and amethyst broach she wore that day and every day since she had gotten it. He knew Cecilia expected him to marry her as she spoke to him endlessly about her favorite cut of stone and color of diamond. 

“Poor girl,” Mary said wistfully, “To have to grown up amongst such madness. We should offer to help the little dear.” She added excitedly as if the idea had just been born from the tender charity of her heart and was not a calculated plan she conceived of carefully during their quiet morning breakfast. 

“Oh no, Mary. No. I won’t be bothered. Her family has a vicious strain of madness and the entire town knows it. I’m not going to meddle in the affairs of madmen or their daughters.” Thomas stood now at full attention, sprig of lavender forgotten. But Mary did not back down.

“Nonsense, Thomas. We have a household position open right now. The girl could use a job. Something to give her a lively hood. She’s a plain little thing and there isn’t a boy or man in town who would make her a proper wife anyhow. Come now, Thomas.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t take in a stray. I have enough to worry about without some willowy girl haunting about the manner.”

Tom looked over to his father unimpressed. He hadn’t anything to worry about. Their money was old and securely invested. He had a son to inherit his titles, deeds, and estates. Thomas Riddle Sr. was a man of leisure. Nevertheless, Tom kept his mouth shut.

“She won’t be haunting about the manner, darling. She will be a new maid. Miss Parker will be leaving soon on her honey moon, she can train Miss Gaunt before she leaves.”

“Mary, this is my house and I will not have you ordering me about. I said no and that is final.” His father stomped off in a huff with Mrs. Riddle trailing right after him. Tom heard his mother’s incessant chatter and his father’s defensive rebuttals for days following their conversation in the garden. 

Needless to say, the Gaunt girl was offered a job the following week. The next time Tom saw her she was clutching her new uniform in her arms as Mrs. Riddle lead her into the library where he was reclining on a forest green chaise longue with his nose buried deep in a book.

“Now, Merope, as our replacement for Miss Parker, you will be in charge of the Southern wing. The Southern wing includes the library, two guest rooms, the blue parlor, our small gallery, the sun room, and of course my Tom’s rooms. Miss Parker will be here soon to go over your duties with you in a more detailed manner.”

Tom tried to focus on his reading as his mother continued instructing Merope but couldn’t help but glance at her from the corner of his eye. She was fidgeting and wore a look of utter contempt on her face. Not that his mother noticed. She was busy basking in her own self importance as she prattled on and on about the kind of condition she expected her staff to keep the manner in. Tom turned his head slightly as he heard the wind chimes beside the window softly begin to sing. 

“It’s not Meer-rope, madam.” At her voice the chimes stilled. 

“I’m sorry?” His mother clasped her hands demurely.

“My name is Mare-OH-pee, madam. Not Meer-rope.” 

“Merope…what a lovely name. Shall we—” Thomas called out for her in the distance and irritation flashed in Mary’s eyes for a moment before it was gone. “Coming, darling!” She called out cheerfully. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” She glanced austerely at Merope before quickly leaving to find her husband. At the sound of his mother’s retreating footsteps Tom spoke to her for the first time. 

“She means it’s a strange name.” Tom said as he lowered the book from his face and stared at the timid girl as she stood amongst the mahogany shelves. She wore a long-faded skirt that might have been blue a one point but was now a shabby grey. A ghost of a floral pattern was noticeable even from Tom’s distance. Her blouse was in a similar condition and seemed to nearly swallow her slight frame. 

“Pardon me?” She asked in a small voice, blushing rather vividly. The glow of her emotion made her skin turn pink and her dark eyes seemed impossibly bright. 

“I said you have a strange name Mare-OH-pee.” He felt a draft in the room flutter a page of his book.

“My mother named me after the stars. Tom is a name someone might give to a stray cat, isn’t it?” She asked rather defensively and it startled him. As an irritated expression settled into his features, he saw a disappointed frown draw upon Merope’s. She looked at him as if he were an annoying child or a particularly uninteresting photograph. It infuriated him. A stray cat? He was a Riddle! He opened his mouth to give her a piece of his mind, but Miss Parker came in before he could utter a sound.

“Oh, hello there, Tom! I didn’t know you were home today. I saw Miss Cecilia in town and figured the two of you were out and about.” She smiled cheerfully and then turned her attention to the girl. “And hello, Miss Gaunt! Mrs. Riddle told me I might find you here.” 

While exchanged greetings, Tom sulked in by the window and pretended to read again. He didn’t know why her expressions had bothered him so much, but he’d never had a girl look at him like that. As he read and reread the same paragraph over and over again he felt the tingling of her dark bright eyes staring at him. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Riddle. For disturbing your reading.” She turned to follow Miss Parker and Tom found his eyes trailing after her lithe figure as she walked into the hallway, the tail of her long brown braid shining down her spine.


	2. "We Court Our Own Captivity"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is NOT nice, but he wants to be. Kind of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the responses! As you can see, I have increased the number of chapters. I'm not sure it will be exactly 10 chapters, but it probably won't be more than that. Next chapter will be from Merope's POV

He avoided her as much as he could in the following months. It was easy enough seeing as she followed the same weekly schedule, still he found himself running into her entirely to often. It unnerved him. 

Every time he felt the urge to grab a book from the library, she was rounding the corner on her way to the sunroom. Her pink mouth would form a surprised little “o” as she stumbled back bringing her arms up protectively against her chest. He scoffed as they skirted around each other and he most assuredly did not notice the way his heart fluttered when they momentarily made eye contact. Nor did he notice or admire that her wide dark eyes were frame thickly by feathered lashes. 

“Mr. Riddle.” She would say as she passed him, tipping her delicate head in acknowledgement. 

“Miss Gaunt.” He would reply as he briskly brushed passed her maddening form. She said his name as if she were referring to a fly. 

There was an undeniable tension between the two of them. Tom couldn’t tell whether it was hatred, lust, or curiosity, but he figured it didn’t matter. None of their interactions seemed to go well enough for him to parcel it out. 

Tom caught her the library more than once with a duster in one hand (clearly pretending to clean) and book in the other. In moments like that he found her utterly unrecognizable. Her straight and slender form bleached by the streaming light of day. The gentle slope of her nose as noble as any sculpted figure he’d ever seen. The moments are over as quickly as they begin. She’d snap the book shut as she spotted him across the room. Her pretty face pinched sour at the interruption.

“Perhaps you ought to pay attention to where you place your novels once you are done with them, Mr. Riddle, seeing as they are so often out of place.” Her gaze was contemptuous as if he were trespassing on her. Tom grit his teeth in absolute annoyance.

“I would hate to make your job obsolete, Miss Gaunt. Whatever would we do without our little Princess Pauper loitering the halls?” He hoped his derision was communicated clear enough in the glare he leveled at her as she shoved the book back into place.

She met his heated gaze with a hateful look of her own. Merope said nothing as she breezed past him, but Tom had enough experiences of his own to recognize the feeling she radiated. Do you know who I am? 

The ribbon at the end of her long braid brushed the exposed skin on his wrist and he cursed Merope Gaunt and the unnatural breeze that seemed to follow her everywhere. 

Tom walked over to the bookcase she had been reading beside and yanked out the novel he saw her put away. It was a deep navy blue with gold leaf letters on the front cover with the title written in a swirling script: _The Book of Days_. 

_“When the night has passed, and the sky has just begun to blush, and dew-besprinkled birds are twittering plaintively, and the wayfarer, who all night long has waked, lays down his half-burnt torch, and the swain goes forth to his accustomed toil, the Pleiades will commence to…”_

He rolled his eyes without any real feeling as he sat down and began reading on the nearby window seat. Despite knowing it was impossible, Tom could feel the warmth of her fingers lingering on the pages.

_“…the seventh, Merope, was married to a mortal man, to Sisyphus, and she repents of it, and from shame at the deed she alone of the sisters hides herself.”_

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

For as much as Tom saw Merope, she was rarely ever cleaning. Yet, the quarters she was assigned to remained spotless. At times it felt as though they were cleaning themselves. 

Without a word she exited rooms leaving every corner dusted, all the windows crystal clear, and each line of books neater than the next. Merope herself had even improved day-by-day since her family had been sent away. The shadows under her eyes lightened and color bloomed in the apples of her cheeks. Her hair, once dull and mousey, seemed to grow thicker and brighter each time Tom caught a glance of it in the sun. 

She wasn’t pretty like Cecilia. Nobody was. Yet, Tom couldn’t help but feel…glad for her healthier gait. Silent as she was, Merope’s presence spoke volumes. 

“She’s like a little ghost floating about her duties.” His mother sighed over her steaming cup. She liked to take her tea in the garden as often as possible and Tom often found himself beside her amongst the butterflies and begonias. 

“Yes, she is oddly quiet.” He replied, trying his best to seem as utterly bored as possible by the subject of her. He took a violet from the center bouquet and began rubbing the tips of his fingers softly against the delicate purple skin.

“Perhaps we should get her a little bell.” Mary suggested distractedly as she stirred a splash of milk into her honey colored brew. Merope did not turn out to be as fascinating as Mary had hoped, but she did her job well enough and kept entirely to herself, so Mrs. Riddle found herself without complaint. 

“That’s hardly very dignified, mother.” Tom said as he began plucking petals off the violet he held in his hand. 

“I suppose not. Darling, what have you done to that poor flower?” Mary asked as he discarded the stem onto the grass leaving the pile of petals in front of him. His mother took on her lecturing tone as she began to lightly berate him.

“My dearest love, I have always tried to instill gentleness into your brutish boyish ways. You must be kind to soft things, darling. Treat them with a light hand.” Her teasing tone became readily apparent as she handed him another flower. “There now, Thomas, treat her tenderly.”

“Yes, mother.” Tom took the flower and could not help but smile back at the childish way her blue eyes lit up. Moments later he crushed the violet in his palm and tossed it over the table as his mother laughed. 

“You rotten boy.” She smiled as she sipped her tea. “Oh, before I forget to ask, how is Miss Cecilia? I’ve noticed she hasn’t come for a visit in a while. Shall I send her an invitation? Or have you…lost interest.”

“She’s been rather bothersome recently. Always talking about the cut of diamonds or the colors of lace.” Truthfully, he had found the golden-haired girl rather insufferable recently. 

“Ah, yes, well you are of that age. A bit young, I suppose, but she has always been a precocious girl.”

“I figure I’ll marry her eventually if she’ll just shut up about it.” He grumbled petulantly. 

“How terribly romantic.” As his mother changed the subject to how his father proposed marriage to her, Tom spotted Merope leaving for the day from the corner of his eye. 

She has a messenger bag slung over her shoulder and her hair had come undone, spilling over her shoulders and down her dark green coat. Something stirred deep within him. Merope pulled the air along with her as she walked, flowers bob their heads and trees swayed their branches as she passed them by. For a moment he felt the urge to follow after her. To see her home safe and offer her his arm so that he could prevent her from stumbling on any uneven ground she might encounter. 

“There goes our little ghost.” His mother disrupted his thoughts. There was something curious in her gaze has she looked at him. Tom swallowed nervously.

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t even need a bell to hear her coming.” Tom was quiet as he frowned at his mother. She kept her face suspiciously free from any emotion, but he knew her interest was piqued which was never good news for anyone. 

“We should retire to the drawing room and see what sort of mood your father will be in for dinner.” She said dismissively. Mary took the napkin from her lap and placed it on the table as Tom did the same hoping that the matter of Merope had been dropped and forgotten. 

“I’m sure he is flustering over that Joyce novel once again.” He held his hand out to her as she rose from her seat.

“When will he give up on finishing that dreadful story? It reads like the ramblings of a madman.” His mother continued her critique as they headed up the main stone pathways back towards the manner. 

Tom had to fight off the urge to look back at the road as they entered their home and felt uncharacteristically empty the rest of the night. 

The following day he found himself once again interrupting a familiar scene. Merope was standing on a footstool and leaning against the shelves with her nose buried deep inside a familiar blue book. Her dark green dress had a girlish cut and long sleeves and a sage colored pattern of vines that grew across the sturdy cotton fabric. Her apron was perfectly white. There were sprigs of lavender sticking out of her pocket, and she was tapping her shoes together in a restless rhythm. 

He found himself wanting to be the epicenter of her focus—to be the book between her hands. Tom felt a familiar curling in the pit of his stomach, the kind of feeling he got whenever he and Cecelia snuck away to a concealed corner or empty bedroom.

Part of him was loath to interrupt her seeing as she was completely enraptured in her current task. He knew she would react with her typical abrasiveness and barely concealed contempt. Tom wanted to snatch up the book, push her up against the shelves, and kiss her soundly until she was soft. 

Despite having Merope’s blushing face vividly pictured in his mind, his eyes settled upon her stony glare as she spotted him at the threshold of the room. 

“Don’t you have a teatime with Miss Cecelia to attend to? Or perhaps some frivolous equestrian hobby to peruse?”

“Frivolous?” His voice incredulous as he responded to her biting comment. “That’s rather rich coming from a girl who spends her time studying stories about ancient revelries and silly stars.”

“Only an arrogant boy like _you_ would refer to the work of ancient philosophers as _silly._ ” She gave a rather indignant stomp down the stepping stool and pursed her lips in a maddening sneer. 

“Forgive me for lacking your _vagabond_ refinement.” His voice seeped with sarcasm. “Some churlish old fairy stories are hardly the allegory of the cave, Miss Gaunt.”

She tilted her head up at him with thinly veiled anger, her face growing pink and blotchy with emotion. His face fell a bit in regret and the faint echo of his mother calling him a rotten boy played inside of his head. 

“Unsurprisingly, you haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about, _Tom cat_. Though it’s not surprising at all seeing as your mind's only preoccupations seem to be obsessive grooming and rats.” She started off towards the door to make a huffing exit, but Tom hadn’t had enough of her yet.

Taking a cue from Miss Gaunt, Tom went after her name as well, recalling the passages from _The Book of Days_. 

“Merope is the lost Pleiades, isn’t she? She disappears from time to time and vanishes from the constellation--to dim to be seen by the naked eye. Her light the faintest of the them all because she hides her face in shame.” 

She ceased her movements as his comment settled into the tension between them. Tom took her stillness as an opportunity to continue. 

“You’re quite like your namesake, aren’t you? Dim and diminished. Always hiding in the shadows, silent as a bug, desperate not to draw attention to yourself, or your worthless, criminal family, or your bad blood.”

Tom could have sworn the light began to leave the room as if a cloud had obscured the sky. The pages of an open book began to turn on their own as he felt an unnatural breeze blow through the room. The glass rattled in the windowsill. He felt his body tense and refuse to move.

Merope turned quickly back to face him. They were so close now he could see the deep grey of her irises. 

“A man stole her light because she loved him. She loved him and he stole from her.” A deep hurt bloomed in the recesses of her pond dark eyes. 

No longer red and blotchy, her face became utterly ethereal in the shadowy room. 

“It is the nature of the world to erode and consume until there is nothing left. Eating light--it is what men do.” Her voiced felt heavy in the air.

As quickly as it came, the dark left. All of the sudden the sunlight surged back into the library and Merope diminished. Pink and perpetually cold. Meek as a field mouse sleeping inside a tulip.

“I—” Tom began once he found his voice.

“Please…accept my apologies, Mr. Riddle. That was inappropriately forward of me.” Her posture quickly followed the change of atmosphere. She folded her hands in front of her stomach and stared adamantly at her shoes. He wanted to life her chin. 

Still feeling quite dumbfounded by the sudden shifts in atmosphere, Tom found himself struggling to reply. He wanted to apologize, to take back their heated exchange and replace it with something kinder. But nothing came out.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to the sunroom.” She said after what felt like an eternity of silence.

“Yes.” He said softly. “Of course.”

As she passed by him, Tom had to still his hand as it reached out to stop her from leaving. 

The next morning, he found himself wandering into his mother’s garden alone. Bees buzzed and butterflies fluttered around him as he bent down beside a colorful flowerbed. He picked a violet and headed back in the direction of his library with a single mindedness unusual for the easily distractible boy. 

He went straight for Merope’s favorite spot in the library and took out the collection of mythologies. Carefully, he tucked the violet into the chapter that told the stories of the Pleiades and pressed it firmly into place as he returned the book back to its proper position, hoping she might find the flower cushioned between the pages.


	3. Prodigious Birth of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 2 for Merope's POV! So sorry that this took a while to post, but now that I have a lot more extra time, I will be updating more frequently! Part 2 will be up by the end of the week

“She’s not long for this world.” Morrigan Gaunt had said upon seeing her granddaughter, Merope, for the first time. She held the gurgling baby disinterestedly in her arms for a few more moments before handing her back to her daughter-in-law. 

Morrigan was older than she had any right to be and had two milky eyes which (she claimed) could see into the future. Time took the clear green of her irises like a slowly darkening sky. 

“The outer eye clouds as the inner eye brightens.” She was fond of saying in her slow low raspy voice. She perpetually smelled like absinth and orange liqueur and liked to give out unsolicited predictions during family gatherings.

While the family had their doubts about it, Morrigan had predicted the last few family deaths with uncanny accuracy and hearing her prediction upon the birth of her daughter had made Merope’s mother, Delphina, cry.

Still, despite her grandmother’s prophecy of early demise, Merope Gaunt was born pink and healthy with a head full of black hair in 1907. Seven was a lucky number for witches and wizards, and, even in light of their humble living conditions, the Gaunts were hopeful this child might turn around their misfortunes.

And while her childhood had been in no way ideal, the first five years of her life passed in relative peace. The Gaunt family was able to live off of their fertile piece of land as well as a small stipend provided by Mrs. Gaunt’s wealthy great aunt Gertrude.

As an infant, Delphina dressed her in layers of white muslin, soft cotton, and flowery lace. Of course, she had dressed Morfin in the same swaddling clothes, which were the same their father had worn before them. Nevertheless, Mrs. Gaunt took pride in how pretty little Merope looked in antique white; she would often sew ribbons into rosebuds and pin them on her daughter’s bonnets or tie a bow into her soft curls.

Her mother tidied the house with a dozen spells going at once; her magic kept the candles glowing and the hearth warm with fire. Delphina made her children’s clothing with strong stiches and soft fabrics. If their small cottage was pleasant and comfortable, it was only because Mrs. Gaunt hung curtains in the windows, arranged their shelves with pleasing trinkets, and bought pictures for the walls.

For as much function as Delphina brought into the lives of her family, she considered herself quite scatter brained. She often skipped reading the labels on ingredient vials and more than once used salt rather than sugar to bake a cake.

As Merope grew into a precocious toddler, Marvolo Gaunt would walk about the garden with her soft hand tucked soundly inside his own as he told her the names of all the plants and how best to make them grow.

“These are asphodels, darling.” He said pointing down to a bed of white and yellow lilies. Her father reached down and snapped a few long stems brimming with flowers and brought them to Merope’s ready hands.

“Az-fo-dells.” She repeated in her small voice. Merope pressed the lilies against her nose to smell their sweet breath.

“Yes, wonderful, Merope. You must plant them in the shade, or their delicate petals will burn. Legend says that they’re the only flower that will grow in the underworld.”

“That’s motherwort, for healing, and aconite, for hurting. What’s this one?” He picked a pink bell-shaped bud and held it close to her face. She added it to her growing bouquet with a mischievous smile.

“Witch’s Finger.” She said crinkling her nose and wiggling her finger at the funny name.

“Precisely,” Her father said as she clutched the flowers in her little bundle. “How good you are at botany, my little witchling. You’ll make a wonderful brewer.”

He kept his stockpile of herbs, plant cuttings, and potion ingredients on the kitchen shelves beside Delphina’s eclectic collection of spices. They were both brewers at heart. Their tiny cottage contained a stockpile of unusual potions and colorful glass bottles.

“I could be a better brewer than her any day. She’s just a stupid baby.” Morfin loudly objected as he made his way into the garden. His steps were like lead as he trampled small plants beneath his feet.

  
“Am not!” Merope cried out with indignation.

There had always been something off about Morfin and no kindness was ever fostered between the siblings. Without parental observation Morfin, more often than not, took special means to terrorize his sister. For her part, Merope came to view Morfin’s aggression and anger as a confirmation of his inferiority.

The first time she knew she was _more_ than her brother Merope was four years old. He was making a mess of their front garden. His hands and knees were smudged brown and green by mud and plants. Mr. Gaunt was going to be furious when he saw what they had done to his herb patch. 

Their mother had told them a story about magic stones hidden deep in the earth that granted eternal life to the one who possessed them. Morfin had thought the wisest thing to do was begin the search in the herb garden.

As luck would have it, during his hasty excavation, he disturbed the nest of a garden snake. Upon hearing a distinct hiss and seeing two long sharp fangs, Morfin let out a great squeal and landed flat on his bottom.

Rather than hearing a hiss, Merope perked up as a whispery voice slithered from the mouth of the angry little snake.

“ _Stupid boy, ruining my nest. Ugly child, screaming the tasty mice away.”_ She saw it rear back to strike out and decided to speak up.

_“Wait, Mr. Snake! We are awfully sorry. We didn’t know you lived in our garden, please forgive us.”_ A curious look overcame Mr. Snake’s face as he glanced over at Merope.

_“Ah, you are one of them I see. I shall forgive your trespasses, serpent-friend, but warn the terrible boy to quit disturbing the soil. He will dig up his death in an adder’s teeth.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_ With that, the small grass snake slithered past terrified Morfin and patient Merope as he made his way to the wilderness beyond their home. 

Needless to say, when her brother rushed to tell their parents what had just happened, they both beamed with pride. Merope remembered the way her father’s eyes would light up with satisfaction whenever she showed her ability to talk to their tiny garden snakes.

Morfin seethed with envy. Merope didn’t care, she didn’t think he could do anything that wasn’t brutish or boyish or terrible. He was messy. He screamed and pouted and broke their mummy’s pretty teacups. He yelled at his father and pushed his sister.

But it never seemed to matter because whenever Morfin broke something Mrs. Gaunt would take out her willow-wood wand to repair it. When he screamed, Mr. Gaunt would send him to bed without supper. And Merope never let Morfin push her without getting up to push him back.

And so, the Gaunt family was happy for a while. Until they were not.

Delphina’s aunt Gertrude had never liked Marvolo Gaunt. She let her niece know all throughout their courtship that she ought to marry a Black or Malfoy.

“Salazar Slytherin’s blood is wasted on that boy, Delphi. He is utterly useless, just like his father was. He swindled away all their money, you know. Gold his forefathers has fought dragons for! Gone. It’s a disgrace. His son cannot give you the life you deserve.”

But young love is powerful. They married in a lush meadow while the cornflowers and daisies were in bloom. The air was as sweet as honey, heavy from their perfumed pollen. Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt’s families erected colorful tents full of pies, cakes, and butter beer. And while the Sacred Twenty-Eight were not a crowd known for their cheer, there was not a moment during the Gaunt wedding that there could not be heard a spell of laughter or seen a cluster of smiles.

Gertrude called love a poison the day Delphina got married and decided that since she would not see her favorite niece become a destitute housewife, she would provide the Gaunts with the means to live comfortably. Enough for a happy life—but not so much as to spoil them. Delphi had married against Gertrude’s wishes after all.

While Marvolo found her to be as unpleasant as she did him, he didn’t refuse the support she provided and came to rely on it instead of expanding his herbology business. He still worked—tending to his specialty plants and keeping his handful of clients happily supplied with whatever they needed. Gertrude’s deep pockets kept him a man of hobbies rather than industry. And so long as Delphina was happy, so to were Marvolo and Gertrude.

This didn’t, however, keep them from squabbling during family holidays.

During the winter of her sixth year, Merope had been given a set of fur-lined navy gloves by her mother and father. The fabric was woven with a durability spell and the edges were embroidered with a swirling vine of white roses. They had cost the Gaunts a pretty penny. Merope was excited to show them to her great aunt during Christmas dinner.

Gertrude lived in a country manor large enough to include a gallery of life-size statues, two libraries, and a great hall with an enchanted mural of the sky. Morfin and Merope visited during the summer season and often found themselves lost for an hour or two in the massive home or garden labyrinth.

More than anyone, Marvolo abhorred being stuck in the luxurious mansion, which he considered gaudy and distasteful, even for just an evening. He hated the way Gertrude would comment on how natural the children seemed to fit into their “ancestral surroundings.” How she gave directions on how his son and daughter ought to be educated, dressed, and disciplined as if _she_ had a say in it.

Most of their exchanges were stifled and awkward in nature. Although it was nearly impossible to avoid having a conversation with her, he did his best to keep a polite distance and speak as little as possible while remaining cordial.

For what they did not know would be their final family Christmas, Merope ran past her father and right up to the sparkling silver robes of her great aunt. The little girl was dressed in a velvet red and green pinafore with purple stockings. 

“Aunty Gertrude, look at my gloves! Mummy and daddy had them made special for me by Father Christmas.”

As Gertrude shared delighted awe in her great-niece’s new gloves, the evening began pleasantly enough.

Just as it had been done every year, Christmas dinner was being served in the formal dining room. The long table was covered in a deep crimson cloth and piled high with golden dishes of buttery potatoes, glossy boats of gravy, tender roasted meats, pickled vegetables, decadent cheeses, and colorful puddings. The room was lavishly dripping in holiday cheer—an enormous tree with wooden toy ornaments and twinkly glowing baubles hanging from every limb. Wreaths of holly were hung with golden ribbons and silver bells, and fragrant pine tree trimmings gave the room a festive aroma.

“I was sorry to hear the news of your mother, Marvolo. Morrigan was a powerful witch and a...remarkable seer.”

“Thank you, aunt Gertrude.” Marvolo replied quietly. “She predicted it herself before she passed. Got it right down to the minute.”

“Truly remarkable.”

After that the topics of conversation remained light and amiable. Delphi talked about her newest home projects and the successful yield of their spring and summer florals, of the developing friendship between Merope and the local snakes and of Morfin’s promising athletic abilities.

“Sounds like a boy headed straight for the quidditch team at school.” Gertrude said happily as she lifted another bit of potato to her mouth. When silence followed her comment, Gertrude looked across the table with a quirking eyebrow.

“I assume Morfin will be heading to Hogwarts next year to begin his education. How wonderful it will be to have another Slytherin in the family.”

Marvolo grit his teeth at the dig but otherwise remained passive and quiet in his chair.

“Well,” Delphina began as she placed the embellished silver cutlery down, “Aunt Gerty, um.” She coughed a bit before continuing. “Marv and I have decided that we would like to educate Fin at home.”

“Have you?” Even little Merope could feel the way the mood of the room shifted with Gertrude’s unhappiness. Her mother reached over to grasp her husband’s hand.

“Yes, Gertrude. We have.” Marvolo spoke up firmly.

“Hm.”

“You see, Aunty Gerty, due to your generosity, Marv and I are able to spend so much wonderful time with the children. We want to continue to dedicate ourselves to their betterment through their education.” Mrs. Gaunt smiled sweetly through her explanation, having rehearsed it several times to herself before that night.

“Mhm. So, this doesn’t have to do with the…recent _unintentional_ progressive actions that have taken place?” She said while starring directly at her nephew-in-law.

“Oh, Aunty.” Delphina sighed heavily as she brought her hands up to rub her temples. Marvolo instantly tensed with defensiveness and indignation.

“And what if it does?” He asked in a gruff voice.

Recently, through no machination of any witch or wizard, Hogwarts had seen an unprecedented spike in its number of muggle-born students. And, although this was rather odd, nothing was more strange than the admittance of muggle-born students into the famed Slytherin House. Needless to say, the situation did not sit well with Mr. Gaunt or many of the other pure-blood families that stuck to the old ways and bigoted traditions of blood supremacy.

“Oh, I knew you were at the root of this, Marvolo. Your politics will be the ruin of you and your children.”

“How dare you. I am protecting them.” He scornfully replied.

“From what exactly? Headmaster Phineas Black is a _Slytherin,_ for Merlin’s sake. And a suspected pureblood supremacist as well. I should think you would quite like politics of that awful man despite the recent turn of school affairs.” 

“Yes, the recent influx of _half-bloods_ and _muggle-borns_. Our way of life is being threatened. Over a thousand years of tradition!”

By this time Mrs. Gaunt and the children had gone completely silent as their bitter words were exchanged.

“Oh, come off of it, Marvolo. Our numbers are diminishing by the year. If you keep up this line of thinking, poor Merope and Morfin will have marry each other.” At this comment both children made vague faces of disgust.

“And what kind of proper education can a boy receive at home?” She continued in her deep annoyance. Her red lips were pursed, and her light grey eyes were wide with barely contained fury.

“You will not dictate how I raise my children!” Mr. Gaunt snapped.

“Well someone ought to in light of your most recent negligence and poor decision making! You aren’t qualified to teach _anyone_ , let alone the heirs of Slytherin! Hogwarts is the best place for both of them to go, Delphina, and I cannot believe you are letting this man jeopardize their futures.” As she spoke, she jabbed her bejeweled finger in her niece’s direction. 

“The House of my fathers a place for, for, _half-bloods, blood traitors, and mudbloods._ I won’t have my children see their ancestors tarnished with such fervent disregard.” Marvolo finished his tirade he harshly brought his fists down on the table, rattling the many porcelain dishes.

“How dare you use that sort of language at my table! In my home!” She stood from her chair in outrage and Marvolo followed suit as they continued to exchange heated insults. 

“Please, lets’ all sit down, this can all be resolved.” Delphina implored loudly as the yelling intensified. Even the house elves shifted uncomfortably during the heated exchange.

“Leave this house, immediately.” Gertrude’s enchanted voice boomed and echoed in the dining room.

  
Mr. Gaunt immediately stormed through the tall arched doorway to the large marble fireplace they had used to floo in earlier. In dismay Delphina gathered the children, who were in that moment close to tears, and followed out after her husband. Pleadingly she cast a final glance to her aunt over her shoulder but was coldly rebuked as Gertrude refused to meet her eyes.

Weeks later an unfamiliar owl arrived carrying a message from Gertrude’s account manager and lawyer informing the Gaunts that the next month’s check would be the last. Delphina immediately began to panic as their family had come to rely significantly upon the monthly pension.

“If you will just apologize, she will give us back what she has taken, Marv.”

“I will not apologize! That bitter old windbag can keep her gold. Let her rot with it.”

“Please, darling, think of the children. We need that income to keep our lifestyle which you seem very intent on protecting.” Delphina urged her husband as gently as possible but couldn’t contain her desperation for his feud with her aunt to end.

“You should be interested in protecting it as well.” He said accusingly.

“Of course, I am, Marv. That is why you must apologize to Gertrude.”

“That will not happen, Delphi. It is about respectability and tradition. I will not compromise my beliefs. I will not set that example for the children.”

All Delphina could do in response was sigh into her folded hands and accept her husband’s stubborn stance.

Since there would be no reconciliation, their lifestyle required drastic change. So Marvolo and Delphina set to work expanding their herbology business. Their kitchen began to overflow with vials of floral oil, bottles of dried herbs, colorful piles of pressed flowers, and bundles of magical herbs bound in strips of clean linen. Space for food and space for potion ingredients began to morph together. 

With an influx of new clients, days for Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt became much longer. They ran themselves ragged in order to keep up with it. Mr. Gaunt began preparing himself and his wife special brews of tea in order to energize them during their late evenings. 

More than once, Merope had woken up in the morning to find her mother asleep at the kitchen counter, head cushioned upon a pile of herbs.

“Rise and shine, mummy.” Merope would shake her mother softly. Delphina would stretch and crack as she awoke and bring her daughter into a tight embrace.

“What a perfect way to wake up.” She would say into her daughter’s sweetly smelling hair.

The children were sent to work every day in the garden, a task neither particularly liked but it kept them engaged enough to not complain too loudly. Morfin was still cruel and stupid, bothering Merope to tears sometimes. She often resorted to threatening to set a snake upon him, a threat Morfin took seriously as his sister had done it before.

For years their lives passed in this way. The Gaunts were tired, but happy enough. Not so happy as they were before, but content none the less.

One spring, when Merope was 10 but would be 11 by the time the autumn rolled around, a letter of acceptance from Hogwarts arrived informing Merope of her admittance into the prestigious institution. She felt a flicker of excitement at the idea of going to a castle to learn and be with other children her age. It was her legacy, she thought, to walk the halls her forefather founded.

When she saw her father toss the letter into the bright orange flames of the fireplace she dashed into her room and cried for hours. She didn’t want to work in the soil and mud until her knees ached. Her mind yearned for challenge and intrigue and _more_.

She heard a melodic tapping on her door and heard her mother quietly slip into her room. She kept her face down in the cushion of her pale blue pillow. Delphina sat down beside the prone form of her daughter and placed her hand upon Merope’s long brown hair.

“I’m sorry, turtledove. We only want what is best for you.”

“Then you should let me go.” Her watery voice was muffled by the down feathers of her pillow.

“You know we cannot do that. But we can have plenty of fun learning here together.” Her mother ran her fingers through Merope’s hair. Merope pushed her face further into her cushion and did not reply. She heard her mother let out a sigh and rise up from the bed.

“Someday you’ll see we did what’s best for you.” Delphina said as she headed for the door.

“No, I won’t.” She replied stubbornly. Merope heard the door open and felt her heart sink with anger and disappointment. She felt as though her wings were being clipped.

“I love you very much, Merope.” Her mother said at the doorway. Merope remained silent as Delphina gently closed the door and headed towards the kitchen for another late night of mixing herbs and pickling plants.

The next morning Merope was awoken as the warm fingers of dawn reached through the grey fog and into her bedroom. She still felt rather sullen about the events of yesterday but decided not to break routine. So, she put on a pair of thick wool socks and wrapped herself in a blanket before heading into the kitchen to awaken her mother.

Her feet padded down the hallway, making soft thuds against the thick floral rugs. She saw Delphina hunched over the counter, her long dark hair obscuring her face. Merope rubbed her blurry eyes and immediately felt something off. She reached out a hand to tap her mother’s shoulder.

“Mummy, time to rise and shine.” She said sleepily, but Delphina didn’t move from her spot. Merope looked over and saw that her mother’s mug of tea was half full and that most of her work was in an unfinished pile beside her.

“Mummy?” Merope shook her mother harder this time and noticing how cold her shoulder was. All traces of lingering sleep left her body as she dropped her blanket and felt her heartbeat speed up.

“Mum, wake up, can you hear me?” She gave her mother one last final push. Instead of waking up, her mother’s body toppled with a thud. Delphina’s face was devoid of her usual rosy complexion; she had lost all color and her lips were white. Her eyes seemed sunken and purple.

Merope’s loud screaming startled Mr. Gaunt out of bed that morning. He ran out to the kitchen to find his daughter horrified and weeping over the body of his wife, now dead.

His memory of the hours immediately following this discovery are sparse. Authorities from the Ministry were called in, supposedly by him although he has no memory on calling them. She had poisoned herself, they said, by accident. Her mug half full of col tea was brewed with a poison that looked nearly identical to the blend they had been using at night to keep awake. He had told her to be careful, she was prone to making mistakes like that—salt instead of sugar. Only this time, this time it was deadly.

She was buried quietly in her family’s graveyard. Marvolo made sure her headstone was made from pearlescent grey marble. It looked like the inside of a seashell and all around the border were intricate etchings of violets, irises, and roses. Delphina’s funeral had been a well-attended proper affair. Everyone in the crowd was draped in black robes and wore mournful faces. They sang dirges long into the night and kept the candles burning until the sky blushed pink with the morning. Merope, exhausted and broken, left a lily on the new headstone, and then headed back towards her father's retreating form. She never saw her mother's grave again. 

Although life continued after Delphina’s demise, as it is undaunted by death, the Gaunts never regained their former happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment for a starving idiot--i mean artist


End file.
